


Slipped Through the Crack

by Ladelle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladelle/pseuds/Ladelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has heard the stories—about werewolves; about how terrifying they are. So…why did one save him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipped Through the Crack

**Author's Note:**

> Had a dream and needed to write it.

Gunshots sang out, and as usual, the town ofBeaconHills seemed deaf to them. Hunters and police scattered to the woods, and Stiles skittered out with the bulk of them, trying to keep a low profile so that his father wouldn’t spot him in the crowd. With his black hoodie on and dark denims, he looked like every other huntsman loping through the snowy woodlands, scalping the area with the hopes of finding one of them.

 _Them_. 

Stiles wasn’t stupid. His dad wasn’t good at keeping secrets, either. There were  _werewolves_  out there, and they were closing in. Or so the hunters said. So now, whenever the tiniest sliver of evidence popped up that one was around, anyone with a gun was out at night looking for it.

“A little young to be out this late, don’t you think?”

The voice caught Stiles by surprise, as he’d hunched over a tree to catch his breath and was under the impression that he was alone. He watched his breathing spell puffs of air and lifted his head, knowing exactly who’d come up behind him.

“Hello, Gerard,” he greeted, as casually as he could. He was the eldest of the hunters that had shown up and convinced his dad, the sheriff, that the town was in danger. Stiles had never liked him. He had too many frown lines, and when he smiled, his eyes were lifeless.

“Does your father know that you’re out?” The older man asked as he brushed some fallen snow from the leather jacket he wore. His cheeks and nose were red.

Stiles pulled his hood up over his head and pulled the drawstrings tight, wishing this whole werewolf thing had happened in the summer, when sneaking out wouldn’t have been so freaking cold. But he was curious, and young, and a pretty good detective himself, so here he was.

“Nah,” Stiles waived it off, trying to look like it was no big deal, even though he knew that if his father found out, he’d be grounded for the rest of his life. “I’m just, you know…taking a walk?”

He didn’t have a weapon, which he hoped made his awful excuse more believable, but Gerard looked him over, smirked slightly, and tipped his head north. “Stick with me, kid. This isn’t fun and games.”

Which was funny, because Gerard looked a little like he had too much fun doing it; the way some people look when they care so much about something that they become blind to everything else, and by and large creep the general population out.

Stiles obeyed, and followed along quietly behind him. If there  _were_  werewolves, at least he’d be safe behind the armed old man. Unless he died from the cold sooner, which was a definite possibility. He shoved his hands into his pockets and listened to the sounds of two pairs of feet sinking into the snow, and leafless branches clicking against each other like hands on a broken clock.

They walked, slowly, tirelessly, for a while. Time dragged on. Gerard’s silence made Stiles feel like there was real danger out there, lurking in the not-so-dark shadows. The sky was gray, after all, and the moon was a smudge of white behind smoky clouds.

And then, Stiles saw it.

At first he thought it was a trick of the light. A black shadow that flickered across the way. But when Stiles glanced over, he stopped cold, seeing red eyes peer from the distance, looking straight at him.

Gerard heard him stop, and cocked his head back to see what was wrong. And, following Stiles’ line of sight, his jaw set firm and he slowly began to lift his gun.

Stiles didn’t notice.

The harder he looked, the more the thing took shape. It was clearly a wolf, but its  _size_ —it was massive. Bigger than any he’d seen before, but more alert than any animal. Stiles could see now that it was watching Gerard—it  _knew_  what he was doing, and for some stupid reason, Stiles stomach climbed to his throat and he was running out towards it, and stepping into Gerard’s view.

“Wait,” Stiles said, and he wasn’t even sure why. Who stepped in front of a gun? Who stepped in front of  _Gerard Argent_  with a gun?

“Kid,” Gerard’s eyes hardened, and Stiles saw something cold there, and resolute. He glanced back at the wolf, which was holding its ground, and watching him with curious eyes.

And Stiles looked at it longer, and he looked deeper, and he could almost see someone there—

“I’m only going to ask you once to move,” Gerard stared him down, and Stiles believed it, but he was still looking at the wolf, drawn to it for some insane reason, and instead of moving he was saying, “Are you stupid? Run!”

And then there was a gunshot, and Stiles jumped when he realized that the bullet had hit the space right in front of his feet. Ice splintered up, and terror gripped Stiles like death incarnate when he realized where he was standing—the center of Beacon Hills’ lake.

“I never liked your father much,” Gerard, was saying, but Stiles was watching the ice crack around him, and he every tiny step he made only made it worse, until he was positive that if he moved, even an inch further, the ice would give way beneath him.

“He’s too soft,” Gerard was going on, looking over his gun and cleaning invisible dirt from its sleek exterior. “He could use a little loss in his life.”

Stiles’ heart was pounding. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Gerard aimed the gun again, and this time, when the shot fired, Stiles fell through, and was smothered in cold.

 ***

Breathing was hard.

That was really the only thing that Stiles could process. Each breath felt like it was being sucked through a straw, and he couldn’t feel his body. He could hear words though, all around him, and he wondered if he was dreaming.

All until he heard, “That’s the sheriff’s kid.”

And then, Stiles knew he was alive. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he couldn’t quite remember how to form words either. To ask  _what_  or  _who’s there_  or even _what happened?_

“He’d going to be the sheriff’s  _dead_ kid, soon,” another voice chipped in. It was younger, maybe Stiles’ age. “What’d you bring him here for? You gonna turn him?”

Stiles felt the growl before he heard it, a low rumble that quaked against him. “Get blankets,” a dark tone ordered, and the words vibrated through him, just like the growl. “Don’t start a fire. They’ll see the smoke.”

“He’s freezing,” a girl said, sounding matter-of-fact.

Stiles agreed with this whole heartedly, and nodded, or tried, but the movement just sent pain shooting through his body, and he winced.

“Go help the others,” the dark voice answered after a minute, and when Stiles guessed the girl had left, the voice added, “Please don’t die.”

And then Stiles was asleep once more. 

***

It was a muggy midday when Stiles  _really_  woke up, and he could feel sweat running trails down his skin. Sunlight was pouring over him, and he blinked a few times, trying to make sense of where he was at, even though he felt like he’d just come out of a coma.

A house, he deduced, but not much of one. The place was in shambles. Not used for a long time, and burned before that. Stiles could see the roof from his spot curled on the lowest level’s floor, only because there was a hole in the second floor that peered straight up at it. The roof had even fallen in a bit, and that’s where the sunlight filtered in, soaking him.

He shifted, but his chest felt heavy. He tried again, but his muscles throbbed. Blearily, he looked down at his chest, and his eyes widened.

There was an arm across his waist. A strong arm. A masculine arm attached to a very naked man, whose face was nuzzled into Stiles’ neck. At least he seemed naked, as his shirtless torso was only half covered by a blanket that molded to outline the rest of his body.

Stiles felt it now, long breaths that fell hot against his skin, and the feel of a body pressed against his, and the  _heat_ —it was stifling.

Stiles shot up as quickly as he could, which was sadly more of a groggy shuffle into a sitting position. His heart was beating erratically as he tried to remember whatever he could—and the last thing in his mind was Gerard and the resounding sound of the thundering crack of his gun.

“What happened?” Stiles asked himself, and when there was a whine, and Stiles looked up, unaware that he was  _also_  surrounded by—

“Wolves,” he said, his eyes darting around the small space in the room where they were all piled. They were huge—just as big as he guessed they’d be, and they were curled all around him. A couple of them were staring at him now, and Stiles fisted the blanket that had fallen to his torso and put two-and-two together. “You were keeping me warm…?”

“How are you feeling?”

The voice made Stiles jump, but there was something soothing about it, like he’d heard it in his sleep. It was the man beside him that had spoken, who really wasn’t  _that_  much older than Stiles, and he had propped himself up and proceeded to stare at Stiles intently, waiting for an answer.

…which actually made it hard to answer, because the guy had the clearest blue eyes that Stiles had ever seen, and it was distracting.

“Do you need water?”

Stiles felt his lips fall closed and looked around again, still taking in the situation; figuring things out. Finally, when the guy nudged him, Stiles shook his head.

“No. No, I’m fine. Uh…” Stiles tried to ignore the fact that the guy beside him was naked and wasn’t sure if he felt embarrassed or accosted. “I…where am I? Who are you?”

The guy was moving; sitting up, and slowly the wolves began to wake, and were yawning and stretching like this was business as usual.

“Derek,” he stated, shortly. “This is just the place we decided to stay, for tonight. I’m pretty sure you know  _what_  we are, so I’d prefer if you left it at that and didn’t ask any more questions.”

So, of course, Stiles asked questions. “Everything’s true, then? Is this your pack? Why are you here?”

To which Derek merely stared at him before pulling a blanket up around himself and standing. “I’m going to go get your clothes.”

When he disappeared around a broken down corner of the house, the wolves were at Stiles, sniffing him, nibbling at the scruff of his neck, and licking at him. Despite the fact he should have been terrified to shoo them away, he leapt to his feet, bringing his blanket with him, and batted at them.

“I am  _not_  a chew toy,” he pointed out, and when a wave of dizziness hit, he stumbled backwards, feeling half relieved to of landed on a battered old couch. He sat and breathed for a minute, and a couple of the wolves left, though one stayed by his side, snout resting on his hand.

And shortly after, there were voices. “He knows about us, now,” one of them was saying, and it was a gorgeous girl with wild blonde hair in jeans and a t-shirt. She was following Derek back out to Stiles, and looked stubbornly agitated when their met eyes. “You can’t just  _let him go_.”

“He’s Stilinski’s kid,” Derek was saying back, and he dropped Stiles’ clothes into his lap. “I  _have_  to let him go.”

“He knows what you look like,” she crossed her arms over her chest. She seemed worried.

Another boy drifted out from the kitchen, not much older than Stiles, and his voice was oddly familiar. “It’s too late to kill him, but you could always turn him.”

The idea took a moment to settle.

Derek turned towards Stiles and snatched up his wrist, his thumb resting idly over Stiles’ pulse, which went erratic.

Stiles swallowed. “Turn me? Into what, a werewolf?”

Derek’s nose drifted to the pal of Stiles’ hand and his eyes were closed, like he was listening for something. Stiles, panicked, yanked his hand back.

“No way. As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t see anything. You…you  _saved_  me, right?”

And then a different weight hit Stiles as he remembered— _really_ remembered.

“ _I never really liked your father.”_

Stiles suppressed a shiver, wondering what would happen when he returned to the city after Gerard had left him for dead.

Then, “What happened to Gerard?”

Derek looked at him, looking every bit the aggressive animal that Gerard had made him out to be, and replied, “I’m sure he’s alive somewhere.”

Stiles shivered at the implication, though he knew that if there was a chance that Gerard was still alive, the hunter would be clinging to it with every ounce of energy he had.

“I wasn’t hunting.” Stiles felt the need to say, and he said it straight to Derek. “I just…wanted to see you, I guess.”

Derek watched him for a moment before he motioned towards his clothes. “Get dressed and head east. You’ll be back to Beacon Hills in less than an hour.”

“And what about you?” Stiles asked, watching the wolf at his side leave, and both the girl and boy behind Derek spun around, disappearing into the same back hallway of the house.

“You’ll forget that we ever met.”

 _“Please don’t die_.”

Stiles doubted it.


End file.
